The Great Game
by InterdimensionalHitchhiker84
Summary: Charlus and Dorea Potter had two sons. What happened to the second? Is he fit to raise his nephew? Dumbledore sure didn't think so, but that won't stop him from going out and finding his family. James Moriarty/Richard Brook is Richard Potter.
1. Suddenly There Came a Tapping

_So, I got a prompt for this from Cpn. J. Harkness. Here's the first chapter._

_Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-not me. Harry Potter is the exclusive property of J K Rowling-again, not me. I do not claim ownership of things that aren't mine. I just borrow them._

_Warnings: The main character of this story is a criminal. There will be violence and criminal activities. He's also not the most patient of people or best of parents. Later chapters may feature corporeal punishment as well as some less than savory parenting techniques._

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 1—Suddenly There Came a Tapping**

A strange tapping came from the window of a dark little flat. The man on the couch jerked up quickly before slowly laying back down. "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door." He recited the phrase in a sing-song voice—a voice that would have almost anyone petrified with fear at the very sound. The tapping came again and the man swung his bare feet down to rest on the floor. Standing, he walked to the window. Gently, he pried it open. "But you're no raven, are you?" A dark brown owl hopped through the open window and shook some of the water from its feathers. The man ignored the howling of the wind and the downpour of rain that was slowly seeping onto the sill. Bending down, his face was brought into a ray of light from a streetlamp outside.

He was a young man, not really even an adult yet—only seventeen or eighteen. He had dark hair and eyes of an indistinguishable dark color. His mouth could be seen to be quirked up in a frightening half-smile as he untied the string that held a letter to the bird's left leg. As soon as the owl's burden was taken from it, it leapt into flight and soared back out into the storm. No longer smiling, the man lit a small oil lamp and placed it on a table. He used a kitchen knife to slice open the envelope and eased a folded sheet of parchment from within. It read:

_Richard Cygnus Potter,_

_We regret to inform you of the deaths of your elder brother, James Potter, and his wife, Lily Potter (nee Evans). They both passed away as of the 31__st__of October, 1981. Their deaths are listed amongst many who died that we might live in a world free from the terror wrought by the Dark Lord. They are survived by a son, Harry James Potter, who has been placed in a suitable home._

_With deepest sympathies,_

_Helen J. Babcock_

_Ministry of Magic, Wizengamot Administration Services_

The man finished reading and plunged the knife into the table, stabbing through the parchment. Without making another sound, he spun up out of the chair and deposited himself back onto the couch. He scowled up at the ceiling for several long minutes, thinking, before a grin broke across his face. Laughter slipped through his teeth and he threw his head back, letting the sounds of mirth fill the dim rooms.

o

Dawn was spreading across the horizon and pale sunbeams were making their way through the window now. In the pale light, it could be seen that the window was one of four. Several bookcases stood against the walls, an odd selection of books gracing the shelves. A kitchen area filled one part of the floor space. A small dining table sat off to the side and a desk sat up against the wall behind a couch and a single armchair. A door led to a bedroom. The walls were bare, papered in a faded cream pattern.

The young man still laid on the couch, hands folded on his chest. His eyes were closed, but he was not sleeping. He was thinking—planning.

o

The young man—who we now know to be Richard Potter—paced the floor, arms folded in front of his chest with one hand brought up to his chin. "And you're sure?" he asked.

A second man, who was slightly older with light brown curly hair, nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then go. Do not disappoint me."

The second man moved rapidly to the front door, opened it, and left. The remaining person resumed his pacing and began to speak out loud, under his breath. "The time is at hand. They won't laugh anymore. Nevermore, nevermore." He smiled again. "No, they won't laugh anymore. This will show them. Show them all how stupid they were. How stupid they are. That was my right. My right as much as his. And now he's gone, but I'm still here. I'm still here and I'll take what's mine!"

ooo

A silent figure approached a silent house under the cover of darkness. The street lamps didn't reach nearly far enough into the shadows to draw attention to the man. He walked calmly up the path and towards the door. A bronze number four hung under the knocker. The man smirked at the uniformity of it all. He turned to his left and stepped around the neatly planted flowers and shrubs. He circled the house, ducked through the garden gate, and crept towards the kitchen door. He pulled a set of tools from his pocket and neatly went to work picking the lock.

He had hardly started when the lock clicked and his smirk of amusement changed to a frown of disappointment at the lack of a challenge. He returned the tools to his pocket and eased the door open, revealing a home that simply gleamed with unnatural cleanliness. The man stepped into the house, pleased at the muddy footprints he left in his wake as he moved. He happily pulled an apple from the fruit drawer of the refrigerator and took a large bite from it, leaving it on the sparkling counter before continuing his mission. He stepped softly into the hallway and listened to the sounds of the house around him. He picked out the snores of an overly large man, the even breaths of a normal adult, and the restless tossing of a toddler from above. Listening more carefully, he caught on to what he was waiting for—the sounds of an uncomfortable second toddler. And this one was downstairs.

He took two measured strides towards the cupboard under the steps and tested the knob of the door. His eyebrows rose when he found it locked, but he made short work of that. He tapped six times in the door before he pulled it open. "And suddenly there came a tapping," he chimed. He openly smiled then, as he saw what he'd come for. A small, worn-down crib was squeezed into the space, and in that crib rested the small form of a child, no older than two. A shock of black hair grew from the small head and fell into his eyes.

Leaning over the edge of the crib, the man touched the small boy as if to pick him up. The child woke immediately, but the man swiftly brought his finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. "Now Harry," he said softly. "It's time for a story. No crying, now." He reached down and grabbed the shocked boy in his arms and rearranged the child onto his hip. He looked around, disgusted at the other items in the cupboard, all of them trash. He only picked up the blanket from the crib and wrapped it securely around the boy he was holding before beginning the promised story.

"Once upon a time," he said, "there was a Lord and a Lady and they lived in a beautiful manor with their two sons. They loved both of their sons very much, until one day, the elder son started to do magic. He made objects fly around the room and created colorful sparks from nothing. The younger son tried to imitate his brother, but didn't know how, so he tried to excel as best as he could. He learned to read and write and to add and subtract. He learned so much that he was twice as smart as his brother, but he still could not do magic. The Lord and the Lady saw their son's struggles—saw that he could not make things move or create colorful sparks—and they thought that he wasn't nearly as special as the older son, who could. So, one day, when the younger son was just seven years old, they took him into the town and left him at an orphanage.

"The older son didn't miss his younger brother at all. He was showered in attention and eventually, he went away to a special school where he learned all about magic and how to use it. The younger son cried and cried. He missed his family more than anything and he didn't understand why he couldn't do the things his brother had done. The other children in the orphanage laughed at him when he cried or tried to do magic and were mean to him. He was smarter than they were, and they made fun of him because they were jealous and scared. But the Lord and the Lady forgot all about their younger son and did not come back to get him.

"Eventually, the older son grew up to be a powerful wizard. He married a lady with red hair and they had a son of their own. The younger son was still trying to prove himself. He was still learning as much as he could and he become the smartest man in the world.

"But there was a war going on and all of the wizards were fighting against each other. The Lord and the Lady died and soon, the older son and his wife did as well, leaving behind their son. This little boy was abandoned just like the younger son was before. When the younger son heard about this, he was angry, because he knew how it felt to be left alone. He searched and searched, and eventually, he found out where the boy had been left. The younger son went to the house, snuck in through the back door, and rescued the boy."

The man smiled down at the big green eyes that were looking up at him. "And now, the younger son is going to take his nephew and raise him as his own son." The man hugged the little boy and started out towards the back door. Silently, he exited the house, crept through the gardens, and walked back down the street the way he came. At the end of the street, he climbed into the waiting car and it pulled away, taking the man and the child back to a little flat in the heart of London.

"I'm James Moriarty now," the man said in the back of the car. "I took his name and I took his son. I'm taking what's mine. From now on, Little Harry, I'm your father, and your name is Samuel Brook." The little boy said nothing, staring up at his rescuer in wonder and awe. He hadn't been told a story in almost a year.

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_I hope you liked the first chapter. I should have another one in a few weeks. Let me know what you thought in a review!_

_Thanks for reading!_

_-MP_


	2. Consulting Criminal

_Alright, dear readers. Here you go. I really am very sorry for the long wait. I have many excuses, though. Exams, homework, and the difficulty of writing Moriarty teamed up in an effort to defeat me. I survived though-battled through. This chapter did not go where I thought it would and I actually had to change the title, but it is finally here. _

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Any of it. Words do not belong to me. Neither do Harry Potter or Sherlock, but I think that's a bit of a side issue, to be honest._

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 2—Consulting Criminal**

The man, newly named Moriarty, sat in the armchair in his flat, the small child he'd just "rescued" sitting on his knee, held out at arm's length. He studied the child, who looked half asleep but still seemed to be trying to study him back. Moriarty noted that the eyebrows were curved the same way as his, the hair was the same color, but messier, and the child had horrendous eyesight, probably inherited from its worthless father. He snorted at the way the toddler was squinting and decided to get the kid glasses as soon as possible. In a few years, he could start wearing contacts, and in his teens, he could get laser surgery.

Moriarty shifted the weight of the green-eyed child and stood up, pulling the bundle close to his chest. He quickly wrinkled his nose at the smell and took several breaths before moving. He had realized, of course, that an abused and abandoned child would be less developed, and his _dear brother _couldn't possibly be capable of passing on intelligence he didn't have (The child's mother had been its only hope so far, and that was hardly very solid. After all, she couldn't be too intelligent if she'd married James) but he hadn't really been prepared for a lack of potty-training. His nose wrinkled again at the word. The child would need to be trained as soon as possible and his other short-comings would need to be dealt with quickly as well.

Regathering his limited patience, the young man moved into the kitchen and plopped the child down on the counter by the sink. He retrieved some of the things he'd purchased earlier from the sacks by the door and returned in time to see the boy about to topple off of the ledge. Dropping the items, he let his instincts take over and he caught the child just in time, backhanding him across the face as punishment. The toddler immediately began to cry and reached up with a little hand to touch his hurt cheek. Moriarty raised the boy up to eye-level with one arm and glared directly into the child's face. "Samuel," he snapped, "You are _not_ to go wandering around." He pulled the little hand away from the cheek and pressed down on the area with his thumb. There was no additional reaction to indicate undue pain. No damage; just shock.

He sat Samuel back down on the edge of the counter and placed his hands on either side of the kid as he leaned in. "Had you fallen, you would have received much greater injury and felt much greater pain. There will be consequences for endangering yourself or others. Do you understand, Samuel?" There was nothing to indicate the young person had understood. Sighing exasperatedly, he took the small, red, and wet face in his hands. "You are _not_ an idiot and you will answer me when I speak to you. _Do. You. Understand?_" The boy nodded slightly, obviously scared.

A smile played at the edge of his mouth as he stood up straight again. Quickly, he filled a large tub with warm water and began to undress his nephew.

The sobs died away quickly enough after he'd been deposited in the soothing warm water and Moriarty, as disgusted as he was with the mediocrity of the task, made short work of cleaning his nephew. The child was soon dried off, stuffed into brand new pajamas, and laid down in a crib, which was located in the second bedroom. Moriarty sat down in a chair by the crib and spoke to the young boy, easing him to sleep.

"Once upon a time, there was a princess. She was the most beautiful maiden in all the land…"

Less than ten minutes later, when he concluded with "But she quickly pulled the knife from where it was hidden amongst her skirts and plunged it into his neck. The noble prince died choking on his own blood and the princess smiled happily. She promptly screamed for the guards, knowing that if she claimed it was magic, she would never be suspected, and hid the knife back amongst her skirts. The guards came and acted predictably and she was soon walking back down the corridors of the castle, humming to herself. A knight caught her eye and she turned to face him. 'A new victim,' she thought to herself. And in this way, the princess, but never anyone near her, lived happily ever after," the little bundle of young human was fast asleep, his fists curled around his blankets.

Moriarty stood, brushed back his dark hair with one hand, and bent down to press his lips to the slumbering toddler's forehead. "Sleep well, young Samuel," he murmured. And as quickly as he thought about it, the young man, newly made parent, changed his own clothing and climbed into his own bed.

ooo

Moriarty woke to the faint rays of early sunlight hitting his eyelids. He refused to open his eyes and squeezed them shut, scowling at the morning. After several seconds, the scowl was replaced by a grin and he chuckled under his breath. He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Standing, he finally opened his eyes. His plain bedroom was gently lit by the pale light of the sunrise. He scrubbed his face with his hands and made his way to the bathroom.

He showered and went through his morning routine, using an electric razor and leaving a slight stubble rather than wasting the time and effort for a close shave. Staring into the mirror, his hands on the counter, he said, "You've done it! Oh, you've done it. But of course, how could you ever not?"

He dressed hurriedly after that, throwing on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, before going into the kitchen. He carefully put away all of the things he'd bought the morning before. He quickly assembled a high-chair, then slowly hand-washed the kiddy-cups and threw the towels and blankets into the laundry to be taken and washed later. Setting the newly dried cups in the cupboard, he left one out on the counter and turned around to face the living area. He was pleased that the child wasn't screaming, but was also highly suspicious.

Eyes narrowed at the very notion that a toddler had managed to sleep for nine hours in a strange location without making a sound, he dried his hands, hung the hand towel, and swiftly crossed the flat. He was by Samuel's crib in only a few moments.

The toddler was sitting in the corner of the cot, curled up as small as possible on top of the pillow. His emerald eyes were wide with fear and they shifted immediately from the walls to Moriarty as soon as he'd entered the room. As the young man approached, Samuel did his best to shrink even farther away, actually quaking in fear.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. Reaching down quickly, he grabbed the child under his armpits and lifted him into the air. The toddler squeaked and tried to squirm away. "Samuel," Moriarty said sharply, his hazel eyes cold. The child stopped making noise and the squirming lessened. The man's eyes narrowed even more. That had been too easy.

He pulled his nephew in close to his chest and looked down at the little face with a frown. "Samuel, I expect you to behave, but I will not hurt you. Not like they obviously did." His voice had softened and he looked at the child with concern now. "I'm your father now and I will take care of you."

Samuel had stopped squirming completely now and was sitting completely still in his uncle's arms, staring up into the face of the older man in shock. Did he sound almost…kind?

Moriarty sighed at the odd look he was receiving and picked up the blanket from the cot. He carried Samuel into the bathroom and helped the boy onto the child's toilet.

The toddler fidgeted nervously, obviously unsure of what to do, but when he finally deposited something in the toilet, he cringed away in fear. Moriarty sighed, disliking this kind of task, but resigned to it. He took the child's chin in his left hand and tilted the small face up to look at his own.

He forced himself to smile reassuringly, but he wasn't entirely sure that it came out as he intended. "Samuel, you did well. That was what you were supposed to do. I'm going to get you cleaned up now, then you'll get breakfast. Do you understand?"

The small boy met Moriarty's gaze questioningly. He wasn't being punished? He nodded slowly and his uncle picked him up. Using a wet cloth, he cleaned him up and put him in a fresh pull-up and new clothing. The toilet was cleaned and taken care of and Moriarty set Samuel on his feet on the floor.

The boy was shocked and stumbled when Moriarty stepped forward, but with great deliberation and carefully controlled and bottled up impatience, the young man held the little boy's hands and forced him to walk through the flat to the kitchen area. Every couple of steps, Samuel stumbled or fell, often letting out cries of alarm, but Moriarty tugged him back up and kept moving. The boy had to learn to walk. He had to be up to speed with other children his age. He was so underdeveloped now, that if Moriarty didn't push the boy and push him hard, he could be behind everyone else for the rest of his life. Moriarty wouldn't allow that. He wouldn't let his nephew live that way. He'd fix the damage the child had already undergone—make sure he became something, had a life better than his own.

When they reached the kitchen area, little Samuel was in tears, but they didn't last long. Moriarty snatched the child under the arms and brought him up to face-height. He smiled and praised the child. "You did so well, Samuel. So very well. You'll keep practicing and you will get better." The man's eyes flashed with the determination that shone behind them and Samuel quieted, in awe of the person holding him. Moriarty brushed away the boy's tears with the pad of his thumb and set him down on the counter.

Remembering the night before, the young boy didn't move and when Moriarty turned back from the fridge, milk in hand, he gave a genuine smile.

"See, Samuel? You can learn. You've done so already." He poured the milk into the cup he'd left out, heated it a bit in the microwave, and put the cup in Samuel's hands. When the child presented a look of confusion, he helped guide the milk up to his mouth. Samuel caught on rather quickly, and drank some of the liquid, but tried to squirm away when faced with the task of consuming more. "Malnourished?" he mused out loud. That would explain his reluctance to eat. It would be uncomfortable to have a full stomach if he weren't used to it.

With a sigh, he relented, taking back the cup. He stood and stared at the child until he began to squirm again, thinking.

Maybe if it tasted good enough, he'd eat or drink it anyways. Children often stuffed themselves past bursting with sweets, didn't they? He turned and pulled some newly bought applesauce from the cupboard and poured it into a small bowl. He plopped a large dob of strawberry jam into it and mixed it together.

Using a small spoon, Moriarty scooped up some of the mixture and brought it to Samuel's face. His dark hazel eyes met the bright green ones and he peered into the child's face, making sure he was receiving full attention. "Open your mouth." He pushed the spoon against the small lips and Samuel's mouth dutifully opened. "Now close." It took a bit longer and a raised eyebrow, but the toddler finally closed his mouth around the spoon and Moriarty slid it out, leaving its contents on the small tongue. Samuel swished it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing, never breaking eye contact.

After that, Samuel devoured the rest of the bowl or food. That was followed by banana slices and a piece of ham. Just as Moriarty was wondering how much such a small stomach was capable of holding and rethinking his earlier deduction about probable malnourishment, he raised the cup of milk to Samuel's mouth again. Instead of taking it as he had the food, Samuel tasted the liquid, then promptly tried to push the cup away. The child let out a bit of noise as he fought the cup and spat the milk on the ground.

Moriarty was frustrated. Children—especially young children—were supposed to love milk. They needed it. He set the cup aside again and grabbed another cup from the cupboard. He splashed some apple juice into it and screwed the cap on. Samuel watched him warily as he approached again. He allowed the cup to be pressed to his lips though, and as liquid poured into his mouth, his wariness faded away in excitement. He took the cup in his own hands and gulped down the sweet juice.

Now Moriarty was just shocked. What was wrong with the milk?

Unscrewing the lid of the other cup, he took a swig of the stuff himself. It tasted fine. It was awful warm, but the taste was the same. He downed the rest of it with a grimace and set it aside.

"Still hungry?" Moriarty asked. The small boy lowered the cup to look at him. Timidly, he nodded. That nod was the first real sign that the boy understood actual words. Asking if he was still hungry wasn't the same as asking if he understood. Any child would nod at the second. So with a grin, Moriarty turned to the fridge and pulled out some eggs.

ooo

Moriarty spent the majority of the day with his nephew. He read him stories, told him better ones, walked him around the flat, cooked for him, and stared intently into the young eyes for a full ten minutes. After lunch, he put the boy down for a nap so he could take care of some business with some of his contacts and clients.

"But I need this, Sir. Really, there's nothing I need more. She took my family from me!"

"You should never have given her access then," Moriarty replied coldly. The strange man in the room sobbed. "I will take care of you problem. For a price."

"Anything!"

"Ah, you should be careful what you agree to, Mr. Williams." Moriarty leaned back in his chair, quite relaxed. "At some time in the future, I will require a task of you. You will complete whatever task I assign you, or the consequences will be severe. And they will be paid for by your beautiful daughter." The stranger's eyes widened in shock. "My terms are non-negotiable. Go." The man scurried to the door and it slammed shut behind him.

Moriarty laughed.

He sat at his desk and powered up his computer. He quickly hacked into some secure databases and forged some documents for the poor man.

Later, a small woman with messy long blonde hair frantically knocked on his door. When he opened it, he smiled charmingly. "Ah, come in, my dear. I have a task for you." He sat her down in a chair and faced her. "Don't worry about your boyfriend, love. He'll be dead by morning. What I ask in return is of great importance. A Mr. Sullery will be near your usual corner tonight. Pick him up, endure his attentions, and plant these papers in his briefcase." She shakily took the proffered papers. "There you are, dear," he said, helping her up. "On your way, now."

Just as the door shut, Samuel cried out. The cry quickly died down to sniffles, however, and Moriarty let him be for a moment, quickly dialing the number for his greatest asset. "The target we discussed. Cause him pain. Come by tomorrow for your payment."

He hung up the phone and dialed a new number. "Yes, hello," he said, making an effort to sound young and cheerful. "I'm Richard. Richard Brook. I saw the auditions notice. So sorry that the old star retired, but I'd be honored to take his place. Story time is my favorite. My cousin's children all watched it."

At the conclusion of that call, he made a note on his calendar for his audition and finally went to check on Samuel. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the child, too absorbed in his thoughts to make any effort to comfort him, and set him on the ground. He walked Samuel to the bathroom, where he stripped the toddler of his bottoms and sat him on the child's toilet.

"You sit here when you need to use the bathroom, Samuel. Remember that." He got the still sniffling child cleaned up, frowned at the fuss he was making, and walked him out to the main living area. Taking a seat on the couch, he pulled Samuel up onto his lap and handed him a cup of water.

He sat thinking for several minutes before putting all other thoughts aside and finally forcing himself to concentrate on Samuel. "What was your nightmare about?"

Samuel looked at him in a puzzled sort of way. "Speak to me, Samuel. Say something!" He fought the urge to shake the boy, setting him aside, going to his room, and screaming and throwing things instead. When he returned, he pulled a now very frightened boy back onto his lap and spent an hour trying to coax him into talking. It didn't work.

He set Samuel on the ground to play with some blocks he set out and went to the kitchen. He sliced some fruits and vegetables and pieces of leftover chicken for Samuel, fixed a quick meal for himself, and sat the child down to eat. Samuel ate it all, Moriarty gave him a quick bath, then he was put back down in his crib. Samuel didn't scream, but as soon as Moriarty shut the door and walked back to his own room, the child began to cry. He was quiet though, and Moriarty didn't hear him as he changed into more appropriate clothes, gathered his materials, left the flat, and locked the door behind him.

* * *

_Yes, Moriarty did not feed Samuel when they first got to the flat. As I said, horrible parent. And yes, he did leave Samuel home alone. Again-horrible parent. This will have consequences. Samuel is not speaking yet and is still terrified to do just about anything, but he is eating. Eating quite a lot, which is good. Moriarty already has the startings of a criminal web, and he's working towards his acting career. His teaching career will come later._

_Reviews would motivate me to write faster this time. :) If you have questions, ask!_

_Thanks for reading!_

_-MP_


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